This is wrong, all wrong. Joseph, Ken, probably Billy—how many others have died? How many more have to suffer because of a stupid accident? He finally turned away, striding purposefully to-ward the door that led back to the dining room. He’d start from the main hall, checking every possible path that the S.T.A.R.S. could have taken and killing every creature that got in the way of his search. His teammates weren’t going to have died for nothing; Chris would see to it, if it was the last thing he ever
did.
Rebecca locked the door after Chris left, silently wishing him good luck before walking back to the dusty piano and sitting down. She knew that he felt responsible for her, and wondered again how she could’ve been so stupid, dropping her gun. At least if I had a gun, he wouldn’t have to worry so much. I may be inexperienced, but I went through basic training, just like everybody else. . . . She traced a finger aimlessly across the dusty keys, feeling useless. She should’ve taken some of those files from the storage room. She didn’t know that there was much more to be learned from them, but at least she’d have something to read. She wasn’t very good at sitting still, and having nothing to do only made it worse.
You could practice, her mind suggested brightly, and Rebecca smiled a little, gazing down at the keys. No, thanks. She’d suffered through four long years of lessons as a child before her mother had finally let her quit.
She stood up, looking randomly around the silent room for something to keep her occupied. She walked to the bar and leaned over it, but saw only a few shelves of glasses and a stack of napkins, all thinly coated with dust. There were several liquor bottles, most of them empty, and a few unopened bottles of expensive-looking wine on the counter behind the bar. . . .
Rebecca dismissed the thought even as it occurred to her. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and now wasn’t exactly the best time to tie one on. Sighing, she turned and surveyed the rest of the room.
Besides the piano, there wasn’t much to see. There was a single small painting of a woman on the wall to her left, a bland portrait in a dark frame; a slowly dying plant on the floor next to the piano, the leafy kind she always saw in nice restaurants; a table that extended out from the wall with an overturned marti-ni glass on top. Considering what she had to work with, the piano was starting to look pretty interest-ing. . .
She walked past the baby grand and peered into the small opening to her right. There were two empty bookshelves pushed to one side, nothing interest-ing-Frowning, she stepped closer to the shelves. The smaller one on the outside was empty, but the one behind it—
She placed her hands on either side of the end piece and pushed, sliding the outer shelf forward. It wasn’t heavy and moved easily, leaving a track in the dust on the wood floor.
Rebecca scanned the hidden shelves, feeling disap-pointed. A dented old bugle, a dusty glass candy dish, a couple of knickknack vases—and some piano sheet music propped up on a tiny holder. She peered down at the title and felt a sudden rush of warm nostalgia for when she used to play; it was Moonlight Sonata, one of her favorite pieces.
She picked up the yellowing sheets, remembering the hours she’d put in trying to learn it when she was ten or eleven. In fact, it had been this very piece of music that had made her realize she wasn’t cut out to be a pianist. It was a beautiful, delicate tune and she’d pretty much butchered it every time she took the bench.
Still holding the composition, she walked back around the corner and gazed at the piano thought-fully. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do. ... And besides, maybe one of the other team members will hear it and come knocking, trying to track down the source of the terrible noise.
Grinning, she dusted the bench off and sat down, propping the sheets open on the music holder. Her fingers found the correct positions almost automati-cally as she read the opening notes, like she’d never given it up. It was a comforting feeling, a welcome change from the horrors inside the mansion. Slowly, hesitantly, she started to play. As the first melancholy sounds rose into the stillness, Rebecca found herself relaxing, letting tension and fear slip away. She still wasn’t very good, her tempo as off as ever—but she hit all the right notes, and the strength of the melody more than made up for her lack of finesse.
If only the keys weren’t so stiff—
Something moved behind her.
Rebecca jumped up, knocking the bench over as she spun around, searching wildly for the attacker. What she saw was so unexpected that she froze for a few seconds, unable to comprehend what her senses were telling her.
The wall is moving—
Even as the last notes lingered in the cool air, a three-foot panel of the bare wall to her right slid upwards into the ceiling, rumbling to a gentle halt. For a moment she didn’t move, waiting for some-thing terrible to happen—but as the seconds ticked past in silence, nothing else moved; the room was as quiet and non-threatening as before.
Hidden sheet music. A strange stiffness to the keys . . .
. . . like maybe they were connected to some kind of a mechanism?
The narrow opening revealed a hidden chamber about the size of a walk-in closet, as softly lit as the rest of the room. Except for a bust and pedestal in the back, it was empty.
She stepped toward the opening and then paused, thoughts of death-traps and poison darts whirling through her mind. What if she walked in and trig-gered some kind of a catastrophe? What if the door closed and she was trapped there, and Chris didn’t come back?
What if you were the only member of the S. T.A.R.S. who didn’t accomplish jack-shit on this entire mission? Show some backbone.
Rebecca steeled herself against the consequences and stepped inside, looking around cautiously. If there was a threat here, she didn’t see it. The plain stucco walls were the color of coffee with cream, offset by dark wood trim. The light in the small chamber was provided by a window into a tiny greenhouse on her right, a handful of dying plants behind the dirty glass.
She moved closer to the pedestal at the back, noting that the stone bust on top was of Beethoven; she recognized the stern countenance and heavy brow of the Moonlight Sonata’s composer. The pedestal itself boasted a thick gold emblem shaped like a shield or coat of arms, about the size of a dinner plate. Rebecca crouched down next to the simple pillar, gazing at the emblem. It looked solid and thick, with a vaguely royal design in a paler gold set across the top. It looked familiar; she’d seen the same design some-where else in the house. . . .
In the dining room, over the fireplace! Yes, that was it—only the piece over the mantle was made out of wood, she was sure of it. She’d noticed it while Chris was looking at the broken statue.
Curious, she touched the emblem, tracing the pat-tern across the front—and then grasped the slightly
raised edges with both hands and lifted. The heavy emblem came away easily, almost as if it didn’t belong there—
• and behind her the secret door rumbled down, sealing her inside.
Without hesitating, she turned and placed the em-blem back in its hollow—and the section of wall rose again, sliding up smoothly on hidden tracks. Re-lieved, she stared down at the heavy gold emblem, thinking.
Someone had rigged all this up in order to keep the medal hidden, so it had to be important—but how was she supposed to remove it? Did the one over the fireplace also reveal a secret passage? Or... is the one over the fireplace the same size? She couldn’t be positive, but she thought it was—and she knew instinctively that it was the right answer. If she switched the two of them, using the wood emblem to keep the door open and placing the gold one over the mantle . . .